My Michael

by Amos Oz

  "We all share your grief, Gonen, and we all look forward to your return. Try to be strong, and ... be strong, Gonen."

  The visitors took their leave. Michael accompanied them out into the vestibule. As he hurried forward to help the professor on with his heavy overcoat, he moved somehow clumsily, and was compelled to apologize with a faint smile. From the beginning of the evening up to that moment I had found him impressive, and so his faint smile pained me. His politeness sprang from deference, not from sympathy. He followed his visitors as far as the door. When they had gone he went back into the study. He was silent. His face was towards the dark window and his back towards me. On the fringe of the silence his voice spoke; he did not turn his shoulders. He said:

  "Another glass of tea, please, Hannah, and would you mind turning off the main light? When Father asked us to give the child a rather old-fashioned name we ought to have deferred to his wishes. When I was ten I had a very bad fever. All night, night after night, Father sat up by my bedside. He kept putting fresh damp cloths on my forehead, and singing over and over again the only lullaby he knew. He sang out of tune and flat. The song went like this: Time to sleep, the day is done, In the sea has set the sun. Stars are shining in the sky, Lulla, lulla, lullaby.

  "Have I ever told you, Hannah, that Aunt Jenia used to try by every means she could to find a second wife for Father? She rarely came to visit us without bringing some friend or acquaintance with her. Aging nurses, Polish immigrants, skinny divorcees. The women would begin by advancing on me, with hugs and kisses, boxes of sweets and cooing noises. Father used to pretend not to understand Aunt Jenia's intention. He was polite. He would start talking about the High Commissioner's latest edicts, and such like.

  "When I had the fever I had a very high temperature, and the perspiration poured out of me all night long. The bedclothes were soaked. Every two hours Father carefully changed the sheets. He took care not to move me roughly, but he always overdid the caution. I would wake up and cry. Before dawn Father would wash all the sheets in the bath, and then go out in the dark and hang them out to dry on the washline outside our building. The reason I didn't want lemon in my tea was that the heartburn is very bad, Hannah. When the fever abated Father went out and bought me a checkers set at a discount from our next-door neighbor Glober-man's shop. He tried to lose every game we played. To make me happy he would groan and hold his head in his hands, and call me 'little genius, little professor, little Grandpa Zalman.' Once he told me the story of the Mendelssohn family, and jokingly compared himself to the middle Mendelssohn, who was the son of one great Mendelssohn and the father of another. He prophesied a great future for me. He made me cup after cup of warm milk and honey, without the skin. If I was stubborn and refused to drink, he resorted to temptations and bribes. He would flatter my common sense. That was how I recovered. If you wouldn't mind, Hannah, could you bring me my pipe? No, not that one, the English one. The smallest one. Yes, that's it. Thank you. I recovered, and Father caught the fever from me and was very ill. He lay for three weeks in the hospital where Aunt Jenia worked. Aunt Leah volunteered to look after me while he was ill. After two months they told me that he had only escaped death by good luck or a miracle. Father himself joked about it a lot. He quoted a proverb which says that great men die young, and he said that fortunately for him he was only a very ordinary man. I swore before the picture of Herzl in the living room that if Father died suddenly I would find some way of dying too, instead of going to an orphanage or to Aunt Leah. Next week, Hannah, we'll buy Yair an electric train. A big one. Like the one he saw in the window of Freimann and Bein's shoestore in Jaffa Road. Yair is very fond of mechanical things. I'll give him the alarm clock which doesn't work. I'll teach him to take it to pieces and put it together again. Maybe Yair will grow up to be an engineer. Have you noticed how the boy is fascinated by motors and springs and machines? Have you ever heard of a child of four and a half who can understand a general explanation of how a radio works? I've never thought of myself as outstandingly brilliant. You know that. I'm not a genius or whatever my father supposed or said he supposed. I'm nothing special, Hannah, but you must try as hard as you can to love Yair. It will be better for you, too, if you do ... No, I'm not suggesting that you neglect the child. Nonsense. But I have the feeling that you're not wild about him. One's got to be wild, Hannah. Sometimes one even has to lose all sense of proportion. What I'm trying to say is, I'd like you to start ... I don't know quite how to explain this sort of sentiment. Let's forget it. Once, years ago, you and I were sitting in some cafe, and I looked at you and I looked at myself and I said to myself, I'm not cut out to be a dream-prince or a knight on horseback, as they say. You're pretty, Hannah. You're very pretty. Did I tell you what Father said to me last week in Holon? He said that you seemed to him to be a poetess even though you don't write poems. Look, Hannah, I don't know why I'm telling you all this now. You're not saying anything. One of us is always listening and not saying anything. Why did I tell you all that just now? Certainly not to offend you or hurt you. Look, we shouldn't have insisted on the name Yair. After all, the name wouldn't have affected our regard for the child. And we trampled on a very delicate sentiment. One day, Hannah, I'll have to ask you why you chose me out of all the interesting men you must have met. But now it's late and I'm talking too much and probably surprising you. Will you start getting the beds ready, Hannah? I'll come and help you in a moment. Let's go to sleep, Hannah. Father is dead. I'm a father myself. All this ... all these arrangements suddenly seem like some idiotic children's game. I remember we used to play once, at the edge of our housing project, on an empty site near where the sands began: we stood in a long line and the first one threw the ball and ran to the end of the line until the first became the last and the last became the first, over and over again. I can't remember what the point of the game was. I can't remember how you won the game. I can't even remember if there were any rules or if there was any method in the madness. You've left the light on in the kitchen."

  27

  THE DAYS OF mourning ended. Once again my husband and I sat facing each other at breakfast time across the kitchen table, so silent and good-natured that a stranger might have mistakenly supposed that we were at peace. I hold out the coffeepot. Michael passes me two cups. I pour out the coffee. Michael slices the bread. I put sugar in the two cups of coffee and stir and stir, until his voice stops me:

  "That's enough, Hannah. It's stirred. You're not drilling a well."

  I drink my coffee black. Michael prefers a little milk in his. I count out four, five, six drops of milk into his cup.

  This is how we sit: I rest my back against the side of the refrigerator and face the bright blue rectangle which is the kitchen window. Michael's back is towards the window and his eyes can take in the empty bottles on top of the refrigerator, the kitchen door, part of the vestibule, and the bathroom doorway.

  Then the radio surrounds us with light morning music, Hebrew songs which remind me of my childhood and remind Michael that it is getting late. He gets up without a word, stands at the sink, and washes his cup and plate. He goes out of the kitchen. In the vestibule he takes off his slippers and puts on his shoes. Puts on a gray jacket. Takes his hat down from the peg. With his hat on his head and his old black briefcase under his arm he comes back into the kitchen to kiss me on the forehead and say good-bye. I mustn't forget to buy some paraffin at lunchtime: we've almost run out. He himself makes a note in his memo book to call in at the Water Department to pay the water bill and query a possible error.

  Michael leaves the house and the tears clutch in my throat. I ask myself where this sadness comes from. From what accursed lair it has come creeping in to spoil my calm blue morning. Like a filing clerk in an office I sort out a heap of crumbling memories. Check every figure in a long column. There is a serious mistake lurking somewhere. Is it an illusion? Somewhere I thought I spotted a bad mistake. The radio has stopped singing. It suddenly starts talking about outbreaks of unrest in the v
illages. I start: eight o'clock. Time never rests and never lets one rest. I snatch up my handbag. Unnecessarily hurry Yair, who is ready before me. Hand in hand we walk to Sarah Zeldin's kindergarten.

  In the streets of Jerusalem it is a brilliant morning. Bright voices. An old wagon-driver sprawls on his box and sings at the top of his voice. The boys of the Tachkemoni Orthodox School wear berets pulled down on one side. They stand along the sidewalk opposite, making fun of the old driver and provoking him. The driver waves his hand as if returning a greeting, smiles, and carries on singing at the top of his voice. My son starts to explain to me that on the 3B bus route there are two makes of bus, Ford and Fargo. The Ford has a much more powerful engine, the Fargo is weak and sluggish. Suddenly the boy suspects that I have stopped listening to his explanation. He tests me. I am ready for him. I heard every word, Yair. You're a very clever boy. I'm listening.

  A clear blue morning reigns in Jerusalem. Even the gray stone walls of Schneller Barracks try hard not to look heavy. And in the plots of wasteland, strong, vigorous vegetation: brambles, convolvulus, squirting cucumber, and a host of other wild plants whose names I do not know and which are generally termed weeds. Suddenly I stop dead with a cold shock:

  "Did I lock the kitchen door before we left the house, Yair?"

  "Daddy locked the door last night. And today nobody's opened it. What's the matter with you today, Mummy?"

  We walk past the heavy iron gates of Schneller Barracks. I have never set foot inside these grim walls. When I was a child the British army was here, and machine guns protruded from the loopholes. Many years ago this fortress was called the Syrian Orphanage, a strange name which threatens me in its own way.

  A fair-haired sentry stands before the gates, breathing on his fingers to warm them. As we pass, the young soldier looks down at my legs, at the gap between my skirt and my short white socks. I choose to smile at him. He shoots me a feverish glance, a mixture of shame, desire, longing, and apology. I look at my watch: a quarter past eight. Quarter past eight in the morning, a clear blue day, and already I am tired. I want to sleep. But only on condition that the dreams leave me alone.

  Every Tuesday Michael stops in town on his way home from the University to book seats at Kahana's Agency for the second showing at the cinema. While we are out, Yoram, the son of the Kam-nitzers upstairs, keeps an eye on the child. Once, when we got back from the cinema, I found a piece of paper in the novel which lay on my bedside table. Yoram had left his latest poem for me to pronounce judgment on it. Yoram's poem described a boy and a girl walking in an orchard at dusk. Suddenly a strange horseman rides past, a black horseman on a black stallion holding a lance of black fire. As he gallops past, a dark veil spreads over the land and over the lovers. In brackets, at the bottom of the page, Yoram explained that the black horseman was Night. Yoram did not trust me.

  Next day, when I met Yoram Kamnitzer on the stairs, I told him that I liked his poem and that perhaps he ought to send it to one of the youth magazines. Yoram gripped the bannister tightly. One moment he threw me a panic-stricken glance, and the next he let out a faint, anguished laugh.

  "It's all a lie, Mrs. Gonen," he mumbled.

  "Now you're lying," I smiled.

  He turned and bolted up the stairs. Suddenly he stopped, looked back, and muttered a frightened apology, as if he had pushed past me on his way up.

  Sabbath Eve. Evening in Jerusalem. At the top of Romema Hill the tall water tower is caught in the flow of sunset. Needles of light filter through the leaves of the trees as if the city is on fire. A low mist spreads slowly eastward, glides pale-fingered over stone walls and iron railings. It has been sent to appease. There is silent dissolution all around. A seething yearning settles unseen on the city. Huge rocks release their heat and surrender to the cold fingers of the mist. A light breeze blows through the courtyards. It rustles scraps of paper, then abandons them, finding no pleasure in them. Neighbors in Sabbath clothes on their way to their prayers. The caress of a distant motor falls purple on the whispering pines. Stop, driver, stop a moment. Turn your head and let me see your face.

  On our table a white tablecloth. A bunch of yellow marigolds in a vase. A bottle of red wine. Michael slices the Sabbath loaf. Yair sings three Sabbath songs he has learned in kindergarten. I serve baked fish. We do not light Sabbath candles, because Michael would consider it hypocritical in people who choose not to follow the ways of religion.

  Michael tells Yair a story about the 1936 riots. Yair's pose suggests rapt attention. I, too, hear my husband's voice. There is a pretty little girl, too, in a blue coat and the girl is trying to call to me through the closed window, which is why she is beating on the pane with feeble fists. Her face is full of apprehension. She is not very far from despair. Her lips are saying something and repeating it and I cannot hear and she has stopped talking and while her face still and already the glass. My late father used to pronounce the blessing over wine and bread every Sabbath Eve. We always had Sabbath candles, too. My father did not know what truth there was in the ways of religion. Hence he kept them. It was only when my brother Emanuel joined a socialist youth movement that all the Sabbath observances were abandoned. Our respect for tradition was very frail. Father was an irresolute man.

  At the foot of the slope in the German Colony in the south of Jerusalem a weary train is climbing. The engine howls and pants. It collapses into the arms of the deserted platforms. The last puff of steam escapes with a helpless wheeze. One last time the engine bellows against the silence. But the silence is too strong. The engine surrenders, succumbs, grows cold. Sabbath Eve. A vague expectancy. Even the birds are silent. His feet are standing perhaps in the gates of Jerusalem. In the orchards of Siloam or beyond the Hill of Evil Counsel. The city darkens.

  "Shabbat Shalom. Good Sabbath," I say distantly.

  My son and husband laugh. What Michael says is:

  "How festive you are tonight, Hannah. And how well your new green dress suits you."

  At the beginning of September our hysterical upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Glick, was removed to an institution. Her attacks had grown more and more frequent. In between the attacks she used to wander outside in the yard and in the street with a blank expression on her face. She was a full-bodied woman endowed with that ripe, wanton beauty which sometimes appears in childless women in their late thirties. Her clothes were always carelessly unbuttoned, as if she had just got out of bed. One day she attacked Yoram, that gentle youth, in the backyard, slapped his face, ripped his shirt open, and called him lecher, voyeur, peeping Tom.

  One Sabbath Eve at the beginning of September Mrs. Glick snatched up the two candlesticks with the Sabbath lights burning in them and threw them in her husband's face. Mr. Glick took refuge in our apartment. He collapsed into an armchair, his shoulders heaving. Michael put down his pipe, switched off the radio, and went out to the drugstore to telephone the authorities. An hour later the white-coated attendants arrived. They took hold of the patient from either side and gently propelled her towards the ambulance. She went downstairs as if in the arms of her lovers, humming a cheerful Yiddish song all the while. The other tenants stood silently watching from the doors of their apartments. Yoram Kamnitzer came down and stood by my side. "Mrs. Gonen, Mrs. Gonen," he whispered, and his face was deathly white. I reached out for his arm, but stopped halfway and withdrew my hand.

  "It's Sabbath today, it's Sabbath today," Mrs. Glick shrieked as she reached the ambulance. Her husband stood in front of her and said in a broken voice:

  "Don't worry, Duba, it's nothing, it'll pass, it's just a mood, Duba, everything's going to be all right."

  Mr. Glick was wearing a crumpled Sabbath suit on his small body. His thin mustache quivered as if it had a life of its own.

  Before the ambulance moved off, Mr. Glick was asked to sign a declaration. It was a tedious, detailed form. By the headlights of the ambulance Michael read out item after item. He even signed in two places for Mr. Glick to keep him from having to desecrate
the Sabbath. Then Michael supported him until the street was empty and brought him into our apartment for a cup of coffee.

  This may explain how Mr. Glick came to be a regular visitor at our apartment.

  "I understand from our neighbors, Dr. Gonen, that you collect stamps. By a fortunate coincidence I have a whole box upstairs full of stamps which I do not need and I should be delighted to make you a present ofthem ... I beg your pardon, you are not a doctor? What of it? All Israel is equal in the sight of the Almighty, except for those whom He views with disfavor. Doctor, corporal, artist—we all have a great deal in common, and the differences are negligible. To return to the point: My poor wife Duba has a brother and a sister, one in Antwerp and the other in Johannesburg, and they send many letters and stick pretty stamps on them. God has not seen fit to favor me with children, and so the stamps are of no use to me. I should be happy to make you a free gift of them, Dr. Gonen. In return, I should like to beg you very humbly to permit me to visit your apartment from time to time so that I may read the Encyclopaedia Hebraica. Let me explain. I am at present in quest of knowledge, and I have formed the intention of reading through the Encyclopaedia Hebraica. Not at a single sitting, of course. A few pages at a time. For my part, I give you my word that I shall not bother you or cause any disturbance, and that I shall not bring mud into the house. I shall wipe my feet thoroughly when I come in."

  Thus our neighbor became a frequent visitor in our apartment. In addition to the stamps, he gave Michael the weekend supplements of the Orthodox daily Hatsofeh, because they contained a scientific column. From that time on, I enjoyed a special discount at Glick's Haberdashery in David Yelin Street. Zip-fasteners, curtain hooks, buttons, buckles, and embroidery thread, all these Mr. Glick would give me as a gift. And I was unable to refuse his presents.